


there's something about a roof

by duskafterdawn



Category: The Seven Realms Series - Cinda Williams Chima
Genre: Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Han has feelings, Post-Canon, Raisa helps, SFW thoughts about Raisa's attire, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskafterdawn/pseuds/duskafterdawn
Summary: One month after the wedding, and Bayar’s shadow still looms over them. Raisa reminds Han that they are a team now, that she’s in his corner, but above all, that he deserves comfort.
Relationships: Han Alister/Raisa ana'Marianna
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	there's something about a roof

**Author's Note:**

> han and raisa make me stupid, so this is my contribution. it's been awhile since i've closely read the seven realms series so if i fudged any details that's my bad, but i just really wanted a specific scene of han practicing emotional vulnerability, and i think that's what we all deserve.

One month since the wedding, and Han has found that the queendom’s problems can be pushed aside for a single day––and barely that. Han has heard, from all angles, how Queen Marianna and Lord Averill had many days worth of celebration, lavish parties and decadent food. He does not envy them. 

At least at his wedding no one wanted him dead. 

Well…. 

Han looks over at Micah Bayar, hands clasped behind his back. The jury is still out on Micah. 

More importantly, considering that Gerard Montaigne has not remarkably dropped dead, Han and Raisa’s pages-long list of problems only increases by the day. They have enough without Montaigne’s jilted ego playing for keeps. 

Han can safely say that Micah has deescalated from a problem to be struck through and turned more into a nuisance to be barred from the room whenever possible, but Raisa has already made her case as to why he is necessary, why they are even doing this. 

“Your Majesty,” Micah says, eyes for Raisa alone. “What’s on your mind?” 

_This_ means sitting around a great meeting table in the Bayar estate with Raisa at the head of it, Micah hovering off to the side, and Han at Raisa’s left. Or her right. Or perched in the windowsill, or pacing around the room when these meetings drag on too long and Micah wears his nerves thin. 

Han tries schooling his tongue in Micah’s presence so long as the bastard does not provoke him, but old habits die hard, and Han’s memory won’t quite forget all that has happened these past handful of years. 

Micah, of course, only has eyes for Raisa and addresses Han only when absolutely needed. It doesn’t break Han’s heart. 

Her Majesty, however, dressed in her breeches and riding boots, her waist accentuated by the gathered material of her shirt, possesses the power to undo Han, unravel him completely if he lingers too long on the image of his hands bunching in the soft fabric of her shirt. Focus, Alister, he tells himself. Focus. 

Han sits in the windowsill to the rear of Raisa’s chair, feet pulled up with him and keeping view of the room. Micah in his sights. Han grits his teeth; he doesn’t expect Bayar to pull anything, but still…. Old habits. Han looks again at Raisa who scans and re-scans the same document. He imagines her face pinched as it becomes when she works out a knot to untangle. Like the knots of her smallclothes that––

Han turns his face toward the window, imagining a hard shove into the Dyrnnewater. 

Never one to be ignored, Micah clears his throat. It works to draw Raisa’s attention back to the room because she says to him, “Your father’s influence seems to still have a hold even in death.” 

Micah swallows. “Yes, it seems he does.”

Han’s fingernails cut into his palms. He unclenches his hands slowly, reminding himself why Micah came to them, why they sit in _his_ meeting room. 

“Because I want to do the right thing,” he told Raisa. “I swear that I am on your side, that I am not my father.” Han was tempted to say that Micah’s father made plenty of his own promises and still managed to be a gutter-swiving snake, but the decision to trust Micah was not his. It was Raisa’s, and Raisa’s no fool. 

So here they are––Raisa, Han, Amon Byrne (of course), and Micah Bayar. Recently acquiring his father’s old title and home upon Gray Lady, Micah took it upon himself to air out his father’s treachery, looking for evidence of it in anything. Correspondence of all kinds, letters received and letters he had yet to send––Gavan Bayar hadn’t planned for the curtains closing on him yet. 

Han grimaces. He supposes no one predicts being sent to the Breaker. 

Still, reading about the late Bayar’s daily affairs makes the hairs on Han’s neck prickle. Han has never needed reminding that even the wicked bleed, but with Bayar’s blood fresh on his hands, he has no wish to read inquiries about Bayar’s mount’s shoe, a problem to be solved within the fortnight. 

Micah wants to prove his loyalty by disentangling his father’s web, but that means sorting through the less incriminating documents as well. Raisa, however, catches names in her own web, Micah helping to make connections between them. It is a delicate thing, deciding whose loyalties fell with Bayar because they wanted a wizard king or because Bayar won them to his side with threats rather than pretty words. 

And then there were those who flocked to power of their own accord, looking for a bully. 

Han warms himself in the sunshine, eyes following the waves of Raisa’s hair, slightly longer but not so long that he misses the gentle slope of her neck. She cracks open one of Bayar’s ledgers, and Han reads the tension in the narrow width of her shoulders. He flicks his eyes to Amon, stationed at the wall, and exchange a look. They have similar thoughts, Han is sure. 

So many people are out to get their favorite person. 

They fall into a pattern. Every time Raisa comes across a new name, either Micah or Amon will give an explanation of who they are, if they still are even in the Fells or if they have flown the coop with Bayar’s death. They better, Han vows, now that the raven’s come to roost in the queen’s suite. 

Raisa makes considerable notes, the nib of her pen scratching furiously across the paper. Hunched over the table, hand moving quickly, Han catches sight of her engagement ring, twin to the one on his own finger. A shudder runs through him. A full month and he’s still not used to the sight. It soothes him; it also reminds him of how furious he is with Montaigne, with the Bayars, alll of Raisa’s enemies––now his own. 

He knocks his head back. Calm down, Alister. All in due time. 

Han returns to the present when Raisa smacks her palms against the table. She gets to her feet, saying to no one and everyone, “I’m tired.”

Han and Amon exchange another look. Micah shifts on the spot. 

Raisa growls, “Either they’ve turned to Arden already or they’ll do it later. I wish they would just drop dead and save us the trouble.” 

_If wishes were horses, beggars would ride._

Raisa shoves out of her chair and turns toward Han’s window seat. She stalks toward him, looking out the pane, but her unfocused eyes are miles away. With onlookers, Han does not think it wise to do exactly as he pleases, but he has never been wise and Micah and Amon hardly count as onlookers. Han settles for twining an arm around Raisa’s waist and pulls her close to him. 

Raisa’s eyes drift down to his. The frustration brims in her, a taut bow in his hands. He spreads his hand on her side and wishes he could offer anything that would ease her mind. 

“Amon,” she directs, eyes on Han even as she talks to her Captain. “Keep reading the list to me.” 

Amon clears his throat. Byrne has a way of saying no without saying so, and it hardly surprises Han when he suggests, “Maybe we should take a short break. Take a breather.” 

Han studies the angry lines in Raisa’s face. The pale orange sun paints her in wonderful light, her ring bouncing colors onto the sill. Bloody bones, she takes his breath away. 

Her hand finds his shoulder and she grips Han hard, like she needs grounding. Like Han is her sole lifeline amidst the tumultuous sea. So many people want the Line overthrown and her dead. This grim work must be taking a toll on her as it certainly takes a toll on him. 

Micah’s expression tightens, cause unknown. Han bites his own tongue. 

“No.” Raisa answers Amon with grit in her voice. “Better to sort it sooner rather than later.” 

And with that, Amon complies. He steps away from the wall and picks up the ledger. As he reads aloud, more names fly around Han’s head, and he tries to latch onto them, but with Raisa twirling the hair at the back of his neck and his eyes fixed upon her face, more than a few escape his notice. 

Raisa kisses the top of his head before leaving Han’s side. She approaches the table again, resting her elbows on the back of one of the ornate chairs as she listens to Amon. Her mood worsens with every new name they ponder over.

Micah offered to do this, but it hardly surprises Han when the subject of conversation begins to weigh on him too. The more Raisa presses him, the more agitated he becomes. Micah may know a lot, but it’s clear his father never fully trusted him with the scope of his plans. 

“He didn’t include me on everything,” Micah says for the thousandth time, the discontent clear in his voice. 

Raisa presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. A few months ago, Han would have liked to see this very scene, but with all that has happened, he likes to think he’s grown since then. He only relishes it _slightly_ when Micah snaps, “I am sorry I didn’t get closer to your conspirators.” 

“It never stopped you before.” 

Han shuts his mouth, staring at the back of his wife’s head. The words belong to her, not him. He’d opened his mouth to interject something similar, but Raisa beat him to it. However, unlike Han, she looks regretful. 

Raisa presses a hand to her head before straightening up. “My apologies, that was…out of line.” 

Han bites his lip, restraining a snort. 

She says, “You’re here of your own free will, and for that I’m grateful.” 

“Tensions are high,” Micah says carefully. With a quick glance at Han, he continues, “We all have tangled histories, but if we’re to fend off Arden, I want you to know that I am on your side.” 

A million venomous replies threaten to roll off Han’s tongue, but there’s no use pointing out a stain that everyone knows is there. 

Amon pushes the ledger away, finished reading. He looks to Raisa. “What now, Your Majesty?” 

Raisa observes the stack of things they have yet to go through. Han knows her persistence flags, and on instinct, he opens his mouth. “Bayar had wizards acting as ‘demons’ when they turned over Ragmarket for this.” He fingers the serpent amulet hanging over his clothes. “Why don’t we start there.” 

Raisa looks over her shoulder at him. Her green eyes try to tell him something, but Han pretends he cannot read it. Han instead looks to Micah, shifty but nodding all the same. 

They spend the better part of an hour discussing which wizards would have been in Bayar’s pocket to do such a thing. Haunting the streets and killing anyone to find the amulet. A search that culminated in–– 

Han doesn’t allow himself to follow that thought.

The conversation continues, and Han only comes back to it, when Micah starts speaking, once again vexed. “You must understand,” he says. “My father was a shrewd man.” 

“That much was obvious,” Raisa returns. Han practically hears Raisa roll her eyes. 

“He wouldn’t have made it easy for people like us to track his movements. I’m sure there’s another explanation or….” Micah trails off. 

Raisa shakes her head, clearly at odds again. “Micah––” 

“My father _was_ brilliant, you know.” 

Han, hearing enough, jumps to his feet. The movement causes Micah’s eyes to widen, if only slightly. “Careful, Bayar. Remember why you’re here and your father’s not.” He comes to stand at Raisa’s side, and without looking, he knows Amon is all tense and bothered and anticipating the worst. No worries. 

Han keeps his eyes on Micah as the other stammers, “I– I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I don’t care how you meant it, little Bayar. I think you’re forgetting that _my_ sister and mam were murdered on your father’s _brilliant_ orders. Know anything about that?” 

Like a fish on dry land, Micah’s mouth gapes open then closed. He looks to Raisa, always Raisa, for recompense. “You know I didn’t mean it that way––”

“Micah,” she says, quite tiredly. “I will say it again, but we are _all_ ––” she cuts her eyes at Han, “––grateful for you being here. That being said, I would ask you to watch what you say.” She inclines her head. “He made attempts on all our lives, so please understand.” 

Micah, white as a sheet, seems to draw himself up. “Once again, I apologize.” A drawn-out silence follows. Micah opens then shuts his mouth, as if debating something to say, but when he finally flicks his eyes to Han, he hesitates before saying, “I– I do know something.”

Raisa narrows her eyes. “What are you saying?”

Micah keeps his gaze trained on Han, however, when he says, “Father gave the orders to Mac Gillen; he was the one to do it. The one who,” Micah clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, “killed your family.” 

Han’s ears start ringing. He’s been beaten by Mac Gillen too many times to count. That man gave him scummer, but this is more than that. This is dizzying; this is soul-crushing rage welling up in his gut and through his chest. He thinks of the smoldering ashes of the stable. He feels the fire, now inside him, burning him alive too. 

A cool hand on his arm. He jerks his head up, Raisa peering at him, and he gets lost in the forest of her eyes. “Han,” she says, fierce and calm somehow at once. 

He tears his eyes away, looking down where his hands smoke as he grips the chair. He scowls and tucks his hands away. He’s not a student anymore. _Get ahold of yourself, Alister._

But it is as if the tragedy happened all over again. The wound ripped clean open with Micah’s words. Han still remembers the smell, the flames licking at the sky. 

“Han,” Raisa repeats, firmer. 

“Yes?”

She doesn’t like what she sees on him because to the room, she says, “Let’s call it here, then.” 

“No,” Han cuts across. “You said it yourself. Let’s do it sooner rather than later.” He finds Micah again, who looks less than thrilled to have Han’s attention on him. “What of Gillen now? Where’s the bastard gone?”

Amon speaks up. “Last I heard, he was posted in the Shivering Fens.” He trails off, looking at Micah, but Micah has nothing to interject. 

Han knows the limits of his position. Bayar abused them, overstepping his bounds again and again until he had the queen eating from his palm, but in actuality, actions must be accounted for. There are councils and hearings, procedures that make the path of getting to where Gillen is much harder than if Han was still a streetlord, looking for revenge. How easy it would be to hush Gillen if was still ‘Cuffs Alister.’ His knife hand twitches. 

Old habits die hard.

Raisa raps her knuckles on the table, drawing all attention back to herself. “Gillen’s already dead,” she announces. 

Amon blinks, placing his words like careful steps. “I didn’t hear of that. Where did this––”

Raisa says in a stony voice, “Mac Gillen is dead, because I killed him.” 

Amon closes his mouth. Micah has nothing to say either, but his eyes grow wide––unnaturally so.

“And on that note….” Raisa looks at each of them, lingering on Han. “I think we’re done for today.” 

Not for the first time, Han regrets sharing his secrets. He promised Raisa to keep no more of them, but secrets are like roots, running deep and taking hold so tight that they hurt whence they become uprooted. And sometimes it’s hard to tell how deep they grow. 

“For someone who’s everywhere and nowhere at once,” Raisa says, “you’re a fairly predictable person, Alister.” 

Han remains facing forward on the bench. He heard Raisa open the door to the rooftop terrace, knew it was her by the curse she uttered as she stubbed her foot on a divot in the floor. It becomes harder not to turn around when her light hand finds his hair, her voice now in his ear. “Are you all right?” 

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

His love of rooftops never has been much of a secret, a comfort more than anything. _You may as well be a walking instruction manual. Your game’s slipping._

Han pushes the thoughts away. He has a different game now, one he and Raisa play together. So why does this feel wrong? 

Raisa takes a seat beside him on the bench, the same spot where they trysted. Where Hanalea and Alger trysted so long ago. Raisa keeps her hand in the back of his hair, fingers combing through it. She knows what effect this has on him; she knows exactly what she does.

Unable to help himself, Han leans into her touch. Though they arrived back from Gray Lady hours ago, Han made himself scarce in the meanwhile. Raisa had affairs to attend, and he had his own. Important meetings. And such. 

“I’m fine.” 

“So you’re not avoiding me?” 

“Never.”

“Try again.”

Han squeezes his eyes shut and then slides a look to Raisa. He hitches up a smile. “Micah’s still scared of me. That’s news to celebrate.” 

Raisa, face pinched, leans closer to him. “You’re changing the subject.” 

“What, you want to talk about how––”

“I hate when you do that.” 

“––you stole my glory? Got the jump on Gillen, did you?” 

“Don’t wear your street-face around me, Han.” 

“You want me to admit it?” When did his voice grow louder? When did it become so haggard? “I’d have loved to gut the pig myself,” he spits. 

The ugly truth sits between them. No matter how Raisa dresses him up, he is and always will be Han Alister from Ragmarket––Cuffs the streetlord. He lived above a stable. Anyone wronged him, and they’d pay up. And then he failed to protect the one thing he had, the one thing that mattered to him all because––

He squeezes his fist over the serpent amulet. 

“Talk to me,” Raisa croons, sweet as ever, but the words hurt him somehow. They make him turn against what she asks of him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he bites. “What’s in the past is past.”

Bayar paid, did he not? 

_No._

“Talk to me,” she pleads again. “It’s you and me. We’re in this together, you know.”

“I _do_ know that.” 

Raisa reaches for his hand in his lap. “You also are used to handling it all on your own. I don’t need to remind you about the last time you went off on your own.” 

“That was different––”

“Was it?”

Han swipes his free hand over his face. “Bayar got in my way. I was just trying to help you. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“This is hurting me, too. Knowing that you’re sad, and that you don’t want me to help.” 

“There’s no _helping_ this.” 

“You can’t expect a festering wound to heal itself––”

“What do you want me to say?” Han explodes. “That I still dream about them? About that day?” 

Han stands, unable to bear Raisa’s hands on him as he leaks fury and magic at once. He paces away from her. He curls his fists. He struggles to keep himself in check, to keep it all from pouring out. 

No apologies or excuses can make it better. Screaming off the edge of the roof won’t either. Letting Raisa see him like this–– no, he can’t––

Raisa stares defiantly at him. Eye of the storm. “You’re upset,” she says. “You’ve been hurt.”

“He took _everything_.” 

Raisa knows, but she asks anyway. “Who?”

“Bayar.” Han whirls back away and slams his palms against the brickwork. “And Gillen. I’ll raise them both just to send them back to the Breaker.” Han drags his palms against the brick, the brick biting at his skin. 

“Bayar keeps haunting us from beyond,” he seethes, “and I won’t lose you to him. I can’t lose anyone else. Not you, not Dancer, not Cat––no one. So I don’t care what it takes. I don’t.” 

When he’s through, he stands there, breathing hard. He stares over the edge of the parapet. The rage slowly leeches away until it’s something not as potent, still burning but not as bright. The more time that passes, the more he regrets spilling over. 

Raisa stands beside him. He has the temptation to turn away from her, but he knows what that will get him. 

“What was your family like?” 

The question throws him for a moment, and Han works his jaw. He’s told Raisa the rough shape of what happened to them, but only a few pieces more than that have escaped from the snare he keeps buried in his mind. 

“Mam was tough,” he finally says, voice rough, “but so was Mari, in her own way.” Han waits a moment, but Raisa stays quiet, offering silently for him to keep talking. He’s kept thoughts of them as just that––thoughts. It takes him a moment to think of what else to say. “Mam was hard on me, but that’s the way it goes, you know? I think I remember it being different. Different when Da was around. She smiled more, I think.

“Mari, though. She didn’t know not to smile. She would’ve loved all this.” He sweeps his hand out. “She loved to paint––was a rum artist. I quit runnin’ for her. I wanted to set an example, and I took her to the temple school, so she’d hopefully stay with it longer than I did.” Han tries to force a laugh. “I know for a fact she would’ve thought the world of you. 

“She was only _nine_ ––”

Han’s throat closes, tears suddenly in his eyes. He didn’t even feel them coming. Tears slip down his face; the wound has been lanced. He sheds it all, and Raisa’s shoulder catches most of it, as she pulls him to her, pressing his face to her shoulder. 

She has one arm around him and the other at the back of his head, fingers resuming their combing motion. She doesn’t quiet him, just holding on as he lets it all out. 

Once his sobs turn to gasps, she speaks. With her head by his ear, she tells him, “I want you to listen to me, Han. Gavan Bayar is gone. Dead. You need not worry about him anymore. His connections and contacts relied upon him, but he was the most valuable piece on the chessboard. Some will be too scared to act with him gone, and Micah is _not_ his father. You know that, right?” 

It takes Han a moment, but he nods. 

Raisa continues. “I want the bad along with the good, because we’re a team, you and I. You are so very good to me, Han, and I want to be good for you too. I’m on your side.” She kisses his neck, pressing “I love you” there into his skin. 

“And I love you,” Han murmurs back, her words salve to the hollow in his chest. He pulls back and clears his throat, scrubbing his eyes on his sleeve. It’s difficult; it’s difficult letting her see this no matter what she says, but he will never doubt Raisa again. 

He thumbs at his eyes to wipe away the evidence of his tears. Eager to change the subject, he slides a look back to Raisa. She still has his hand clasped between both of hers. “So. Mac Gillen?” 

Raisa shrugs. Her fingers start playing with the cuff on his fancy jacket, then gently tracing the veins in the back of his hand. “When Micah took me from Oden’s Ford, we ran into…complications. As you know.” 

“As I know.” 

Raisa’s gaze hardens as she looks out at the dying sunlight. “You’re right. He deserved the Breaker. I remembered Gillen from when you and I first met.” 

A flood of memories comes back to Han; who knew that first meeting would lead to _this_.

Raisa curls her fingers into fists. The moonstone and pearl ring sitting pretty beside her Gray Wolf band. She says, “I ran into many enemies that journey home, Gillen being one of them. He came at me with a knife, but I had one too, and I didn’t hesitate.” She swivels her eyes to Han’s. “If I had known all that he did, I would have done it again. And _again_. But all the same, he’s now just a corpse buried under snow.”

A sense of relief comes over Han only in the way that Mac Gillen won’t hurt anyone else ever again. At the same time, an undercurrent of fear runs through him. So many people want his favorite person dead. 

Han doesn’t shy away from Raisa’s fierce gaze, but all his cursed mouth can say is, “I think your body count is higher than mine.” 

Raisa gives him a small smile. “Compliments to the one who advised me to take advantage of any opening. I took your advice to heart.” 

That warms him somehow. “Anybody should think twice about going toe-to-toe with you.” 

Raisa snags both his hands. Their twin rings dazzle in the sunlight, significant of the promise they made to each other, repeated again and again and repeated now. “Together,” she says, a trace of the demon in her smile. “They’ll think twice about going against the queen and her High Wizard.” 

“Especially since the High Wizard is sweet on the queen. Hear he’s a real pain in the ass to deal with.” 

“That so?”

“It’s true.” 

Raisa comes up on her tiptoes to kiss Han’s mouth, then his jaw. He pulls her closer to deepen the kiss, to bunch his hands in her shirt, and he gasps into her mouth as she presses against him. He would marry her again if he wasn’t already bound to her. “Rumor has it,” she whispers, “that she’s sweet on him too.” 

“He’ll be counting his lucky stars,” Han vows. “I know that’s true.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- and they lived happily ever after  
> \- sorry not sorry micah  
> \- thanks for reading! ✨


End file.
